


Sanctify

by sacrament (NekoAisu)



Series: disciple of rapture [1]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Assault, Chronic Illness, Devildom (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Drinking, Generally an all around not nice time between Judah and a demon, Magic, Mentioned but not in detail, Named Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Non-Consensual Touching, Original Character(s), Original Demon Character(s) - Freeform, Other, Pain, Poisoning, Threats of Violence, Whump, Wine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25995598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/sacrament
Summary: Judah hates wine.
Relationships: Main Character/Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Simeon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Character(s)
Series: disciple of rapture [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886752
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Sanctify

**Author's Note:**

> Boy howdy I haven’t attended church in 374847384 years
> 
> Judah is a mood and lives rent free in my head

Judah hates wine. They’ve never taken Sacrament at church, or gone through with Communion. It is a privilege allowed to others to think of the acidic tang as the blood of some unknowable God and not just alcohol. They refuse to drink it even when it’s imported from the Human Realm as a gift from some friend of Diavolo’s. The cork is still removed and a glass is poured just for them. 

“You would do well to accept,” the demon says. 

They know. Nobility between the realms seems to behave the same. It would reflect badly on Diavolo and their home to refuse, but the smell of fermented grapes just makes their mouth go dry. They take the glass with a smile that does not reach their eyes and try to take a passable sip without swallowing. 

Satan is too far away to signal. He promised that he’d be there, should they need intervention, but aside from calling on their Pact, there is nothing else they can do to escape from the situation. 

“I need to get some air,” they say, after half a swallow and a familiar answering nausea. “Excuse me.”

The banquet hall is too long, all bright lights and polished marble, with dozens of doors all leading to different corners of the castle. They barely manage to make it out of the nearest one and into a disused parlor before the dizziness comes. Their visions swims with spots and feedback like a vintage film. It’s a miracle that they manage to place the wineglass down on a dusty table before they collapse to their knees. 

Something was in the wine. There are so many ingredients that could kill them that it seems almost laughable to consider it an intentional act. Even within the Human Realm, they had adhered to a strict medical diet to manage their condition. Erring from what they knew was safe would net only pain and potential complications. They want to believe it’s just demons not understanding that it isn’t just a “picky human thing” when they say they can’t eat certain foods. 

They’re halfway to controlling their breathing and getting onto a chair when a familiar voice calls, “Was it not to your taste? I thought a human such as you would be able to share my sensibilities. Demon blood is rather difficult to harvest, you see, and I went through all this effort to collect it from higher ranking ones, at that. You can’t simply  _ waste  _ it.”

They inhale sharply, leveraging back onto their feet and attempting to appear more put together than they feel. “I’ll have to refuse.”

“I didn’t say you could and, see, I have a  _ terrible  _ habit of being… how should I say it?  _ Too  _ hospitable,” the demon says with a simper. They stride into the parlor and stop by the table. They pick up the glass, taloned hands holding it delicately before pressing against the sides. Tiny, nearly imperceptible cracks spread outward from the tips of their claws. Judah does not want to know how easily they would be able to run them through. “It would be a shame if I had to force you.”

“I never got your name,” they say, attempting to stall for time. 

_ Mammon, come here. Please, please,  _ please.  _ I need your protection. _

There are times where they know they can put up a fight. They’ve weathered the fury of every demon brother in turn and managed to survive even the summoning of Lotan. They know they aren’t as weak as they once thought, but noble demons are a whole other class from the ones who liked to make trouble for them at RAD before they began collecting Pacts. 

It would be childsplay to tear them limb from limb, much less feed them tainted drink.

“You may call me Leraikha. You are Judah, yes?” They do not phrase it like a question.

“Why does it matter?”

“And you are mortal,” they continue, straightening their rich green coat. “I wonder what would happen, when you do me the honor of finishing the bottle.”

Judah laughs nervously. They want to cast a curse, maybe bind Leraikha’s feet to the floor so they can make a run for it, but the demon is standing solidly in the way of the door. If they tried to make it past, they would be within range of those talons, or the many sharp teeth hidden behind their unnervingly pleasant smile. 

“I’m really sorry, but I’d prefer not to test that theory quite yet.”  _ Or at all.  _

Leraikha just looks at them like their fear is an indulgence freely offered. They hum, turning the glass in their hand to get a better look at the leftover lipstick mark on the rim. “This is Asmodaeus’s favorite brand, isn’t it? Luxury suits you,” they comment, acting like they aren’t still waiting to make good on their threat. 

“Thank you,” they reply through gritted teeth, “but I need to be leaving.”

The demon laughs, the sound splintering into something akin to metal grinding instead of mirth, and steps forward to tilt their chin up with the tip of one wickedly sharp nail. They ask, “Do you really think I would give up an opportunity to make fools of Lucifer and his brothers? I am offering you a once-in-a-lifetime gift—why would you even  _ think  _ to refuse it?” 

The unspoken “refuse  _ me”  _ echoes loudly in Judah’s ears. “Uh… allergies?”

“What a mouth you have. Maybe I should have done you a favor and taken your speech. I’ve always preferred quiet underlings.”

“Yeaaaah, well,” they say, adrenaline making them feel clammy and nauseous rather than powerful, “you really don’t want me. I’m loud and annoying at all hours. A terrible underling, really.”

Their magic sputters when they try to mumble incantations under their breath. Every time a syllable is pronounced incorrectly, or they bite their tongue out of nervousness, it fizzles out. Satan would be appalled, if he was there to witness their attempts. 

They don’t know how to call on their pacts when none of the demon brothers are present. Do they just need to will someone to come to their aid? They’ve been mentally screaming for Mammon to get his overprotective ass down to their location for the better part of five minutes to no result. Speaking a name and commanding someone who is not within range of hearing would likely net them a quicker and less agonizing death, rather than a savior. Leraikha does not seem the sort to consider their resistance a pardonable offense. 

They stay quiet as the wine is offered once more. They breathe through their nose and do not dare open their mouth to speak again. 

“How rude you are, little Judah. Humans rarely refuse me, but you seem so  _ determined.” _

_ “I would like to, you know, not die,”  _ they are tempted to quip. The fear they feel is far more powerful than their penchant for sarcasm, however, and only grows the closer Leraikha’s claws grow to their face. 

It’s between one second and the next that they loose a potshot attack. Electricity arcs from their fingers into the demon’s arm with startling potency, causing the muscles to contract before falling limp. They duck out of the way of a swipe, the tip of a talon nicking their brow and drawing blood, before scrambling for the exit. The layers of their outfit feel stifling against their skin where they’ve become damp with sweat. They send a silent prayer to whatever power presides over Heaven that they might avoid the whole damnation and eternal suffering for demon-related sinning. They’ve suffered through a high society soirée, being made to consume their least favorite drink, and are now running for their life. The least Heaven or Hell could do is cut them some slack. 

They have a hand on the doorframe, shoes skidding against marble, when they’re yanked back by the hair. 

“Where are you going in such a hurry? Don’t you know it’s rude to abandon your guests?”

Leraikha recovered faster than planned. 

This time, they are not afforded the freedom of keeping their agency. There are hands—more than two, three, five, seven—wrapping about their limbs with bruising force. The dull pain of their knees colliding with the floor is just one more point of discomfort among the dozen newfound terrors they wish to ignore. 

One hand, this time with duller, less hooked nails, presses against the sides of their jaw, leveraging against their cheek until the muscle spasms and they can no longer keep their mouth shut. Before they can snap it closed (and maybe bite Leraikha), fingers hook between their molars on both sides. They try to shake free or spit them out, but the difference in strength between humans and demons is all too obvious. They can barely manage an aborted gasp against the pressure on their rib cage, much less resist when Leraikha picks up the glass, now half-empty from spillage, and pours it down their throat. 

They sputter, instinct driving them to swallow when they can no longer draw breath. The wine sticks like syrup instead of flowing, but that could just be the grip another ephemeral hand has on their neck. 

Once the last drop has been consumed, they are released unceremoniously. Leraikha looks down at them, not a hair out of place, and asks, “How do you feel? Are your pacts weakening? Demons can’t hold mutual pacts, little fool.”

Judah just continues to cough. 

“Don’t tell me you’re  _ this  _ weak,” they complain. “You may just  _ die  _ before I get any use ou—“

“Lord Diavolo is requesting your presence within the banquet hall.”

_ Barbatos? _

Leraikha sighs with the most put-upon frown they can manage before waving their hand dismissively. “I will be there shortly. I was simply giving my regards to the human, ah… I meant  _ Judah.” _

They sweep from the room just as Judah’s vision begins to dim. Everything looks far away and yet too close, dust motes swimming through the air like feedback on an old TV, and they barely process the sound of steps retreating before they hear another familiar voice.

“Be at ease,” Simeon commands without departing from his usual tone, “and allow those in His service to cleanse you of sin.”

They barely manage to make out his form before blacking out, but even while blurred and obscured by dancing spots, they can see him smile indulgently at them. They hope he won’t be upset if they don’t wake. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on twt @khirimochi or in the comments if you’d like to yell with me about OM!


End file.
